


Handle with Care

by izzygone



Series: The Uniform [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-19
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:16:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzygone/pseuds/izzygone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Spock found himself in his Captain’s room, gently holding (and occasionally stroking) Kirk’s possessions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handle with Care

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I'm not in the Star Trek fandom _per se_ I've never watched the original series, so forgive me for not possessing much knowledge outside the new movies and fyi this wasn't beta'd (I know you're shocked haha)

Sometimes Spock, first officer of the starship Enterprise, half-Vulcan, half-human, graduate of Starfleet Academy, proud advocate of all things logical, found himself in his Captain’s room, gently holding (and occasionally stroking) Kirk’s possessions. Spock had a flawless photographic memory, and he knew in one sweep of the room exactly which items the captain had moved that day, exactly which ones he used. Spock touched these items first.

For months, Spock tried to reason out why he did this – sneaking into the Captain’s room via their shared bathroom, handling his things with an odd sense of possessiveness and desire to continue touching. After considering the why of it and, to his surprise, attempting to justify his actions as logical, he finally gave up and determined it was, in fact, no matter what way you put it, illogical. So he resolved to stop.

Yet still he found himself sneaking in at every chance when the captain was away, visiting Bones in medical, chasing a skirt, or imbibing illegal-in-most-star-systems alcoholic beverages with Montgomery Scott in his quarters. The moment the captain exited his room, there was Spock lifting his dirty command golds from where Kirk abandoned them floor. Cold to Spock’s touch, but still warm enough to know this was the shirt Kirk wore today on the bridge. The one he wore when he told that joke Spock did not comprehend but made even Sulu chuckle. The one he wore as he promised Spock he wouldn’t get them into any trouble on the planetoid below them. The one he wore as he bounded away in excited terror as the natives turned out, as Spock accurately predicted, to be hostile toward the diverse crew of the Enterprise. The one he wore when he grabbed Spock’s hand and tugged him behind a rock, hiding them as the natives rushed past. The one he wore, body pressed hard against Spock, breathing heavily though his body was perfectly formed for running great distances at high speed, and whispered deadly sweet into the half-Vulcan’s ear: _I think we lost them_. Spock could still feel the twitch of Kirk’s lips, the half smirk of victory.

Without realizing it, Spock had increased his grip on the shirt. Within his strong hands, the shirt had torn, one finger slipping through the hole he accidently created. A green flush of embarrassment spread through him. This is what he had come to, ripping his friend’s shirts in an effort to be closer to things that had touched him.

And now Spock did not know what to do; he could not return the shirt to its position on the floor, Jim would surely notice the hole through one of his previously perfectly maintained shirts. But neither could Spock remove it, as the Captain was equally likely to notice it missing.

Perhaps if Spock were of another species, he would have stretched his mind further to determine further solutions for this problem. But instead, after playing out each scenario, he decided to confess. Perhaps the shame and embarrassment of his safely guarded secret coming to light would finally be enough to end his illogical obsession with the Captain’s possessions.

He retreated, then, to his room, unready to be caught. He carried the torn shirt with him, gripping it fiercely as if, well, if he was going to go down, he was going to get some pleasure from it. Though how he derived pleasure from stroking a shirt, he could not express.

The Vulcan sense of smell is not overly strong, but Spock held the captain’s shirt to his face, inhaling deeply. It smelled of Kirk’s pheromones, sweat and the distinct scent of the cologne Spock had helped him pick out, the only one the first officer could tolerate. It was, for a moment, as if Kirk filled him. Without another thought, Spock slipped out of his own uniform and into that of his captain. Now he felt filled and surrounded by Jim.

He felt odd, out of place, in a uniform of gold. And it didn’t fit him properly, hanging too short just barely to the hinge of his waist and loosely where Kirk was solid and heavy muscle and Spock was long and lean. But it was soft and drenched in the scent of the captain and somehow that felt just right. Spock traced the hole at the side of the uniform, where his fingertips had breached the seam. He imagined it on Jim’s body, being able to find skin through the tiny entrance.

Perhaps Spock could repair it before Jim returned.

But no, he didn’t even want to. It was time for him to confess. And, quite honestly (for a Vulcan cannot lie, not even, apparently, to himself), he couldn’t imagine taking this shirt off for any reason other than the shame of it.

It was illogical, his need to feel the shirt. He ran his hands across it, over his chest, down to the sensitive skin of his abdomen. He imagined doing that to Kirk.

Then he imagined Kirk doing that to him.

He stopped.

Illogical.

He prodded his mind for a meaning behind the strange desire to touch. This shirt belonged to Jim. That made him feel... pleasant. This shirt had been on Jim’s body under an hour prior. That made him feel... hot and... tingly. Similar in many ways to the way his body reacted when Nyota caressed his erogenous zones.

The emotional response this shirt invoked in him was beyond illogical, it was _impractical_. It was one matter to feel lust for a female -- where at least there was some chance of reproduction as an outcome -- but entirely another to feel it for male who completely lacked the biological compatibility. Between them, they could not create offspring.

And yet...

The desire for such an encounter did not decrease.

His breath hitched as his hand, heedless of his mind’s commands, continued its plodding, exploratory caresses over the silky smoothness of the shirt and down further, gliding over the steadily growing bulge in his regulation pants.

The human half of his brain readily supplied images of Captain Kirk doing this to him, stroking him slowly to hardness, teasingly unclasping the uniform, sliding his hand underneath, brushing his fingers over regulation briefs and then under so it was nothing but skin against skin and touching and gentle strokes making Spock pant, almost beg for it --

But his Vulcan mind fought it, shouted at him, _illogical, irrational, immoral_ , and Spock groaned aloud. He could not make the choice -- he knew, _knew_ what he was doing -- masturbating to _images of his own Captain_ \-- was not okay. It was perverse, nonsensical and emotionally driven. Yet. The movements of his hand over his now fully erect cock had not slowed but instead increased in speed and his cognitive functioning was diminishing, and an overwhelming need was taking over the reasonable portion of his mind. He growled, tugging harder at his cock and worrying at the hole in the side of Kirk’s shirt, unable to think of anything except Jim’s hands, his mouth, the tightness of his Starfleet-issued trousers. He became rapidly irritated with himself for even thinking such things -- Jim on the floor, Jim’s mouth open, begging Spock to just shove in -- but he couldn’t stop. Everything smelt of Jim, felt of Jim and it fogged his mind as he raced closer, thumbing over the slit of his cock -- something Uhura never did, but Jim would, Jim would just know how Spock liked it -- being a bit too rough with himself as he burned with shame and wanted, just wanted to reach completion because it felt so good but it hurt him, hurt his mind that he couldn’t control himself, that he couldn’t reason out these desires, couldn’t master his lust.

He pulled at the shirt, tugging it up so it covered the bottom of his face, smothering his month and covering his nose so he was breathing it in, breathing Kirk in. And fuck, Kirk and the smell of sweat and sex and _Jim_ surrounded him, and he was thrusting now, involuntarily seeking out more, more, more wishing it was Jim’s hand he was thrusting into, wishing he wasn’t so fucking weak but he was close now, so close and he couldn’t stop it, even if he wanted to but he was this far now and there wasn’t anything left of him, any sanity left in his lust-addled brain. One abruptly harsh thrust simultaneous with a perfectly timed twist and the image of Jim licking his lips, and Spock came with a sob, hot liquid spurting over his hand as he stroked himself through it, tiny dots of come splashing onto Kirk’s now ripped and sweat-slick officer’s uniform.

Laying there in a pool of his own come, wanting only to relive his fantasies from moments earlier, Spock knew he was fucked.


End file.
